Page 38 of The Tartan Thesis

“Thanks for putting this together, Torin, and for the tickets, Beau,” Isla calls over her shoulder as they march down the cobblestone street.

“Sure thing,” I call back with a wave.

Then it’s just me and Torin.

A thrill shoots through me at the thought of having dinner alone with him. I know it won’t be a date, but…

I stick my hands in my pockets, suddenly unsure of myself. Torin might not want to go now that the group has broken up.

“Should we—”

“Do you still want to—”

I laugh. “You first.” I’m not sure what he was going to say, and I’m nervous about what comes next. Date or not, I don’t want to put myself out there only for him to reject me. We’re getting along so well, and I don’t want to jeopardize that, especially given my romantic past. Or lack thereof.

He glances down at the pavement, scuffing his shoe against the cobblestones. “I was just going to ask if you still want to go out for dinner,” he says.

Maybe he’s as nervous as I am, but I don’t want him to be nervous with me, so I choose my reply carefully to leave no doubt about what I want right now.

“I’d love to get dinner with you, Torin.”

His gorgeous green eyes meet mine, and he smiles. “Let’s go, then.”

13

Torin

Slàinte Mhath (slahn-chuh vah)

Translation: Good health

Usage: To toast to someone, often with a drink; similar to “cheers” in English

Night is falling as we trek down the steep hill from the castle, our footsteps echoing as the evening crowds thin. I point out a few iconic elements of the city—the Balmoral clock tower standing tall near the Sir Walter Scott monument in the distance—before providing a history of New Town and its adjacent gardens. He’s excited about everything I share with him. We cross Princes Street, and I take a few steps before realizing he’s no longer beside me. When I turn back, he’s standing in the middle of the pavement looking up at Edinburgh Castle, high up on its ancient stone foundation, wonder written all over his face.

He catches me looking at him and gives me a bashful smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I must seem like such a numpty to be so amazed by all these touristy spots.”

“Look at you, adopting the lingo,” I say. “And nah, you’re not a numpty. I’ve lived in Scotland all my life, and I still marvel at our castles sometimes.” I glance back at the fortress towering above us. “I’m lucky to live here.”

“We both are,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in the growing darkness. “Thank you for showing me around today. It was helpful.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “You were a great student. You approached everything with what I believe Americans call ‘golden retriever energy.’”

He laughs, a warm, easy sound, and there’s a moment where we just look at each other. My gaze drops before I can stop it. To his lips, his tongue sweeping across them. I wonder if they’re as soft as they look. My eyes snap back up to his just as the streetlamps flicker to life. Beau’s watching me. Really watching me. There’s a knowing expression on his face that sends my eyes skittering to look anywhere but at him.

He’s not going to kiss me. Not after the way I behaved the first half of term. I need to rein it in.

Thankfully, he breaks the silence. “So you said something about a pub your sister recommended?” Our eyes meet again. “I’m starved and wouldn’t mind a drink.”

“Aye,” I say, snapping out of my thoughts. “It’s a bit of a walk, though. We can go somewhere closer if you’re that hungry.”

“Nope, let’s stick with the plan,” he says and gestures for me to lead the way.

Tension broken, we talk as we walk, drifting from topic to topic. The castle, our classmates’ idiosyncrasies, the dozens of ways to say it’s raining in Scottish Gaelic. Beau seems to be able to latch onto any subject and run with it, either offering some new insight or asking good questions that make me think or that send us off on another tangent. I never feel like I’m searching for something to say with him. He has an ease with conversation, which helps. I don’t know if it’s his upbringing or a natural curiosity, or if he read a book about how to be charming, but it’s easy to talk to him. I shove my hands into my pockets as we cross another street, a flicker of regret passing through me. All the time squandered that I could’ve had with him. As his friend.

The pub is busy when we arrive, warm light spilling out onto the pavement as we push through the door. Inside, the air smells of fresh-baked bread and polished wood. A low murmur of conversation fills the room, many of the tables full with high-end clientele. Beau’s eyes light up when he sees the bar on the back wall. Shelves run up to the ceiling, a golden glow highlighting hundreds of bottles of whisky.

“Time for your next lesson in Scottish culture,” I tell him.